


Game Beloved

by counteragent



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Light BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:04:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/counteragent/pseuds/counteragent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you understand what will happen to you tonight?” Jensen speaks softly.<br/>“I will serve the king with my body, sir,” the boy says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Game Beloved

The boy stands before Jensen, tall and straight. His eyes are cast down to the ground in a display of propriety. His brown hair is wavy, freshly freed from the braided style fashionable among the clans of the north. His body, covered only by a cloak worn open over a traditional kilt, is slightly muscled but not peasant-thin. He’s been well-fed and, judging by the firm muscle tone, his daily work involves varied labor.

“How many years have you?” Jensen asks, his first words to the boy.

“Eighteen, sir.” Jensen is as much a servant as the boy before him, but it is custom to address a tutor with respect.

He looks younger than his years, a boy’s bulk spread on a man’s frame. He has been massaged with stained oils to soften the transition of sun-darkened skin to softer, lighter areas. The result retains the tan of a laborer with the smoothness of a courtier. Jensen makes a note to favor his preparation artist. 

The boy is anxious, shifting his weight as he studies the rug. He should be; unbelievably, he’s been called to serve the king on his first night as a leannán. Minor lords have been known to offer daughters and second sons into the service on the slim chance that they would someday serve a prince or princess.  To serve the king himself on his first evening is an honor almost without parallel.

Jensen is nervous himself. It’s his first assignment since setting foot on the shores of his new home less than a week ago, traded as a highly skilled servant to the court of Bronntanas in the latest peace treaty. And skilled he is: Jensen has tutored no fewer than 15 leading leannán. His third, Danneel, had earned a title and her freedom, her considerable charm honed to perfection by Jensen after a year of intimate training sessions.    
   
Enough thought. Jensen stows his fear and breathes deeply. He walks forward and places a hand on the boy’s chest. To his credit, he does not flinch. He raises his arms at Jensen’s slight prodding, turns around, lets Jensen sweep aside his cloak to admire his broad back. His actions bode well. Jensen has no wish to subdue a struggler, even if he has the means to do so in his official tutor’s bag.

Satisfied for the moment, Jensen steps back. Jensen has been informed that the customs are similar in Bronntanas. No matter that he hasn’t even sat at an official court function, or even seen his new king—men fall into types. Jensen had been told that the king was “lusty and quick” and to fully prepare his charge in the traditional manner. It goes without saying that the kid will likely not need Jensen’s finer lessons on seduction. He would probably just have to lie still.  
  
“Do you understand what will happen to you tonight?” Jensen speaks softly.  
  
“Yes, sir. I will serve the king with my body, sir.” The boy still does not raise his eyes.  
  
“True.” It is useless to be coy, so he continues in detail, “you will be bound and your hole opened with oils. It will be sealed like the cork in a bottle to await your king. The king will enter you with his manhood in either your hole or your mouth, spilling his seed in you or on you.”  
  
The boy starts trembling about halfway through Jensen’s speech. He crosses his arms to grip his own biceps in an attempt to still himself. His nostrils flare with the effort to maintain even breaths while he continues to stare stubbornly at the ground. He is frightened. He is beautiful.  
  
Jensen gentles his voice. “It’s much to comprehend at once, I know. But my duty is to help you enjoy as much of it as you can. To serve the king is an honor, yes, but it can also be a pleasure.”  
  
“I hope so. Sir.”  
  
The boy finally raises his eyes, and Jensen draws a breath in surprise. They are blown dark and full of desire. What Jensen had mistaken for fear is _want_.  
  
“Well, then, let us begin.”  
  
***  
  
Jensen tightens the final knot on the boy’s hands and backs away to inspect his handiwork. He’s had to improvise, the chambers he was given to work from under-stocked compared to his working rooms at home. The boy is on a low platform bed, knees bent, ass up, with his chest resting on a stack of firm pillows. His hands are bound at the small of his back, the stack of pillows taking his weight while his head hangs to rest gently on the bed. He is neither blindfolded nor gagged—most nobles like to hear their leannán, sample their sounds of pleasure or pain. Some wish for full participation, of course—Danneel had been fortunate to serve a string of men inclined to enjoy her wit as much as her perfect breasts. However, a man who orders his leannán bound in the traditional manner does not desire conversation.  
  
Jensen gathers the boy’s hair in his hands. The strands are soft, and surprisingly well cared for. Jensen draws them together with a leather tie and is struck, unbidden, by an image of the boy crying out in pleasure-pain as a shadowy figure tugs his hair like a rein, riding him roughly. Jensen takes a deep breath and looks away.  Most leannán are women, as most nobles who keep them are men. It is one reason Jensen had made such a name for himself as a tutor—he was not tempted to taste another man’s fruit. It had also allowed him to keep his manhood fully intact; other men who served as tutors were often eunuchs. His desires have served him well, but they are no help tonight.  
  
The relative freedom of his head allows the boy to swivel to look at Jensen. The eye contact brings Jensen back to the present, reminding him that the boy is more than a body spread for the taking. He is Jensen’s charge, his responsibility. Jensen walks over and smoothes his hair one last time, running his hands down the boy’s back in a gesture of reassurance. The boy responds to Jensen’s touch with a small sigh.  
  
“When the king leaves,” Jensen’s voice is warm, “I will rub you down, massage your back. It will feel like heaven after the ropes.”  
  
“I don’t mind the ropes so much,” the boy mumbles, and Jensen is hit with another stab of unwanted desire.  
  
“I am pleased they do not pain you unduly,” Jensen agrees mildly, no hint of the words he wishes to say instead—the ropes expose your perfection—in his tone. It is true, though. The ropes pull his long limbs taught, tightening his wiry muscles as he unconsciously tries to adjust. His neck is stretched by the weight of his head, exposed and pliant. And his ass—.  
  
The boy wears his kilt still, although it covers only the top half of his ass at this angle. Jensen is perhaps taking too many liberties by leaving it on, but he suspects the king might like to see his kingdom’s tartan while he fucks his boy. Kings like to be reminded of their own importance. 

Jensen tests the fit of the butterfly shaped tool that holds the boy’s thighs apart. It is held in place by the tension created by ropes twined around his knees in a figure eight. The dark wood is warm where it meets the boy’s thighs; Jensen cannot wiggle a finger between the tool and flesh. Good. Satisfied that the spreading tool will not fall during the ride, Jensen pushes the kilt up and aside, baring the boy’s ass fully.  In response, the boy strains to look over his shoulder at Jensen.  
  
“Now we will open you with the oils,” Jensen intones, as if he is remarking on the weather.  
  
The boy responds by licking his lips, in trepidation or something else. Jensen tries not to speculate as he reaches for his preparation kit. The sight of his familiar bottles calms him. He selects his favorite oil and pours some on his hands, rubbing them together to warm the oil.  
  
“We will start with my fingers.” Jensen allows the oil to slide off onto the boy’s skin above his hole, then wastes no time following it up with the pads of his fingers, massaging. The boy shudders at the contact.  
  
“Have you ever done anything like this?” Jensen asks. Keeping them thinking of something else is a time-honored trick, but Jensen cannot make his mouth speak of more mundane topics.  
  
“N-no,” the boy says, “I mean, I’ve thought about it. I ah—ah--,” Jensen has one finger inside the tight ring of muscle.  
  
“You thought about another boy, in your village perhaps?” Jensen still sounds like he’s reading livestock counts, but he knows his deeper breathing betrays him.  
  
“No, I—I— _oh_ —" two fingers, “I thought about being a leannán. Of serving. I,” the boy pauses on a small groan, “I volunteered for the service.”  
  
Jensen is surprised enough that his insertion of a third finger is graceless. The boy lets out a low, pained moan, and Jensen hates himself even as the sound stiffens his cock.  
  
“All is well,” Jensen lies meaninglessly, and he removes his hand to reach for the specially shaped rod in the center of the kit. Carved from ivory into a shape similar to a risen manhood, it has a warm feel and a robust heft. It is smooth, save for one lengthwise divot that could be used to deliver a small stream of oil once inserted. Jensen quickly coats the rod in oil. He does not want to rush the preparation, but he dares not drag this out a moment longer than necessary.  
  
“You will feel a smooth rod. It will help open you and slick you. I will press it into you on a count of five. One, two—“ Jensen presses the rod past the ring of muscle while the boy is still relatively relaxed. “Good, good,” Jensen says as the boy takes the implement without tensing overly much in retaliation. “That’s right, just let it happen.”  
  
The boy is breathing shallowly now, trying to relax into the sensation. He is struggling to take it all, to be proper, and the sight of it sets Jensen afire with mingled protectiveness and dark lust. The bravery the boy displays—embracing the unknown while bound and at his mercy—tugs at Jensen’s very core.  
  
“My good boy,” Jensen’s voice is honey itself as he shifts his position to hold the rod with one hand and slip the fingertips of his other into the boy’s mouth. Another tutor trick to direct attention away from his filled hole, it allows Jensen to indulge in letting himself be known to the boy, letting him taste someone who truly desires him.  
  
The boy groans loudly, and Jensen is dizzy with want. He removes his fingers from the boy’s mouth, placing that hand on the bed to steady himself. This will end with his manhood in a vice and the boy in a noose if they kept going along this path.  
  
“Please!” the boy cries. Jensen gasps at the need in his voice, but he does not stop his ministrations. He begins to rotate the rod slowly, while moving it in smooth, short thrusts. Jensen is still propping himself with one arm on the bed. It begins to shake as he watches the tool slide in and out of the boy's flesh. He's opened many virgin leannán before, primarily as an act of kindness. This has become an act of devastation; it is destroying Jensen's professional facade, opening parts of himself he's kept hidden for so long.

“Please,” the boy begs again, drawing out the word into a soft moan.  
   
“What?” Jensen asks, as if the question had an answer he could live through. The boy is bound, but Jensen is the sacrifice.  
   
“I want it to be you. I want to feel you alive inside me, not this dead thing.”  
  
“I…” Jensen makes his decision, succumbing to the gods begging for his will. He removes the rod as quickly as he dares, causing the boy to moan in protest even though he had been asking for it. Jensen replaces the tool instantly with his mouth and tongue, his fingers spreading the boy’s cheeks asunder. He burrows with his nose, then his chin, tongue questing into the boy’s newly loosened hole. The boy is all hitched breaths and stifled moans as he buries his face into the bed covering, biting down. He rolls his shoulders uselessly, shrugging against his restraints.  
  
“Tutor!” the boy calls out and though it sounds ridiculous, Jensen is flooded with warmth. This beautiful boy had surrendered to him without knowing his name.  
  
That, at least, is a gift he can give. “Jensen, my name is Jensen,” he pants, pulling away only for a moment. Then he is licking and kissing and plunging again, and the kid is beyond words, an incoherent, perfect disaster.

Jensen knows what he needs, it’s like he’s always known. “You can spend yourself,” he rasps, “I will clean you.” Jensen reaches around to fist the boy, who comes with a cry.  
  
Jensen falls back on the bed, shuddering as he fights to control himself. It is uncivil to pleasure another man’s leannán, but it is evil to derive pleasure from it oneself. It is minutes before Jensen is able to rise.  
  
The boy is silent as Jensen inserts the last bit of oil followed by the large stopper, only the flare of his nostrils betraying any sensation. Jensen cleans him and the pillows that caught his seed quickly, methodically. A freshly opened window and a stick of incense erase the smell of sex from the air.  
  
Jensen is just about to quietly take his leave when the boy turns his head toward him again.  
  
“Jared,” he whispers. “My name is Jared.”  
  
***  
  
It is tradition for a tutor to watch the early sessions of his leannán. The nobles care not—what is the presence of another servant? Crucially, it allows a tutor to observe the performance of the newly instructed, to ensure that mistakes are corrected and nobles are served to the best of the pair’s ability.  
  
Jensen has never hated tradition more than he does now. Waiting behind the proscribed screen (it would not serve to have a tutor just standing there), Jensen has no choice but to hear—and see, if he dares peak through its hinged folds—the king fuck his Jared.  
  
The king is not what Jensen had been expecting. Jensen had vaguely formed thoughts of a drunken fool stumbling in, loudly praising or insulting his leannán before throwing off his finery and sloppily taking his due. The king would be uncomely, inbred and soft. Jared would lie still, doing his best not to display his disgust, waiting only for Jensen to free him and care for him. Jensen had seen enough nobles to consider this outcome most likely. Danneel’s first night of service had been thus.  
  
Instead the king appears in worn leather breeches and a simple cloak and tunic. Obviously a man of battle, he wears a well-used sword and a light shirt of chainmail. He has just come in from riding, although he’s had the decency to trade his boots for indoor buckskin shoes. He is striking; tall, with a commanding barrel-chested figure and dark hair above a handsome face. He moves like a man in the prime of his life, assuredly but without haste.  
  
He says nothing to Jared, simply removing his cloak, chain mail and sword with practiced movements. No maid dresses this king. When he stands only in tunic and breeches, he walks over to kneel in front of Jared’s head, somehow making his shuffle onto the low platform bed graceful. Jared’s head hangs down in submission to his king. The king slowly raises it by his hair to study Jared’s face. It is not unkindly done, but neither is it an invitation for Jared to speak. Jensen cannot see Jared’s expression, but he knows Jared keeps his eyes downcast, as would any subject of the realm.  
  
The king must see something that pleases him—how could he not—for he pulls Jared’s head back further and shifts sideways to cover Jared’s mouth entirely with his own. It’s less a kiss than an act of calm aggression; with his neck bent at such an extreme angle, Jared is already having trouble breathing. The king’s mouth like a seal across his lips will only make it harder. The king holds Jared’s hair in one hand, moving his other to stroke Jared’s exposed throat as he kisses him deeply. The room is so quiet that Jensen can hear the wet slide of their tongues and the sounds of Jared struggling to breathe through his nostrils.

Jensen is struck by a cutting fear. In his homeland, leannán are seen as skilled servants, their worth appraised and appreciated. They usually hail from homes with some status, and many leannán adorn official court functions as accessories of wealth or de facto courtiers. What if Jensen was misinformed? Perhaps customs were radically different here, perhaps leannán were disposable bodies—it would explain why Jensen had only been given one day to prepare a leannán fit for a king.  
  
Jared struggles weakly against his restraints as the kiss continues. Jensen’s stomach plummets as he hears Jared start to whimper, an involuntary sound born of pain and need for air. Jensen is hopelessly planning to take up the king’s own sword against him when the king breaks the kiss. Jared’s head falls as he gasps to fill his lungs.  
  
“Well done, leannán.” The king’s voice is deep and laced with a sardonic tone Jensen instantly despises. “I believe your mouth should be able to take a cock, then. Let us see if I am correct.”  
  
The king stands, somehow stately as he balances on the low bed to remove his breeches. His cock is thick and well-formed, already hard in anticipation. The sight of the king standing over Jared stirs another dark flood of desire in Jensen. He wants to save Jared. He wants to fuck Jared.  
  
And, to his ultimate shame, Jensen wants to watch while this man takes Jared away from him.  
  
The king sinks back to his knees and raises Jared’s head again, this time with firm hands on his cheeks and jaw. Jared’s mouth is aligned with his cock. Jensen cannot see Jared open for him, but he must, because the king shifts forward slowly. Jensen imagines him feeding his cock into Jared, thinks of Jared’s eyelashes fluttering as his eyes tear up from the strain. Jared’s breathing is once again labored, and it becomes more so as the king begins to thrust.  
  
“Ah, I was indeed correct. Excellent.” The king’s thrusts are as steady as oar strokes; he is enjoying Jared’s mouth but showing an admirable restraint. “Make sure you wet my cock, boy. You’ll appreciate it soon.”  
  
Jared groans, and Jensen would swear it is an honest sound. Jensen looks between Jared’s legs. The angle isn’t perfect, but he can see the end of the boy’s long cock jutting up, filled with desire. Jensen turns away immediately, his light tunic suddenly unbearably hot and constricting. He does not condemn Jared for enjoying his service; Jensen’s achievements as a leannán tutor stem directly from his ability to teach the pleasures of submission. On the contrary, the fact that Jared did not need his instruction in this arena only arouses Jensen further. He is the perfect leannán, a natural. A treasure. Jensen would want to study him if he could just stop wanting to fuck him for a moment. Jensen turns to brace himself on the wall behind the screen, his reaction hidden from the king by the screen at his back. This boy will be the death of him, he is sure of it.  
  
Jensen cannot stop himself from returning to his post when he hears the king speak.  
  
“I will take you now.” The king’s voice is rougher, deeper.  
  
The king slides out of Jared, freeing him to breathe deeply. Jensen imagines him dizzy, with blank spots in his vision. Jensen wants to hurt the king. He wants to beg him to do it again.  
  
The king walks around to stand behind Jared, wordlessly admiring Jensen’s handiwork. Jared’s ass is perfectly positioned to be plundered by a standing man, thanks to the low bed and Jensen’s artful trussing.

“This tool is quite fine.” the king grabs the handle of the stopper, turning it while Jared squirms. “I think I will replace it when I am done here.” He punctuates his statement with a small thrust. Jared whines as the tool sinks deeper momentarily.“I will play with this longer next time,” the king promises with heat, then he abruptly shrugs the stopper out of Jared, tosses it away, and lines up his cock.  
  
Jared keens as the king pushes in relentlessly. The king’s backside now blocks Jensen’s view of Jared’s ass, but he sees Jared’s head swaying restlessly from side to side as the king grips his hips and shoves forward.  Jared’s bound arms and hands lift slightly to fall down to his back, useless. Jared cries out as the king starts to thrust, then grits his teeth in an attempt to remain quiet. He fails, though, animal grunts escape him as the king pounds into him.  
  
Jensen feels like he is losing his mind. His body is flushing hot and cold with unchecked desire. His cock is aching from being full for the second time with no release. The sight of the king fucking his Jared is basely beautiful in a way that Jensen has never witnessed. The king’s backside tightens and releases with each thrust, his powerful ass and back working like they were made for nothing more than this act. Jared is shouting his pleasure as he nears completion, his long cock jerking in time to the king’s thrusts. Finally the king’s reserve deserts him, and he thrusts brutally fast, causing Jared to breathe in shallow punches of breath.

Jared cries out in pain as much as pleasure when he finally he shoots his seed. The king follows immediately, holding Jared in a vice grip, shoved inside as deep as possible. The king spends in unnatural stillness, emptying into Jared with a long sigh of relief.  
  
Jensen’s hands move to his cock of their own accord. At the slightest touch, he comes in his breeches, falling to his knees in a mockery of prayer.  
  
***

When Jensen comes back to himself, the king is speaking to Jared in soft tones. He is gently petting his leannán, while he murmurs a series of heartfelt endearments. “So good for me, letting me be what you need. Such a good boy, such a fine man. So perfect for me, every time. I will always be what you need from me…”  
  
Jensen is trying to comprehend what his senses are reporting when the king unerringly turns toward the screen and speaks to Jensen.  
  
“Are you planning to help me with these ropes or not? You tied him tight, damn. Sure he’s fucked boneless now, but he gets stiff quick. And I don’t want to be here if that happens.”  
  
Jensen cannot make sense of the instructions, fear flooding his veins. Never before has he been directly addressed by a royal in such a delicate setting. The king was supposed to take his pleasure and leave the clean-up—leave Jared—to Jensen. The king must be incensed by some aspect of the evening, to break protocol thusly. Jensen rushes out from behind the screen and prostrates himself at the king’s feet, his head touching the silk carpet.  
  
“I am yours to command, Your Highness.” Jensen only hopes that he can receive the brunt of any punishment, that the king’s ire will not fall on Jared.  
  
Inexplicably, the king starts to laugh. Jensen raises his head from the ground slightly. The king’s head is thrown back in a booming laugh, his handsome face creased in mirth. Dimples war with crows’ feet as his most attractive feature. His laughter is entirely incongruous with the situation. It makes him beautiful. It makes him terrifying.  
  
“Oh, it’s that way, is it?” for some reason, he addresses Jared. “You could have just told me, you know. I’d have worn a crown.” Jensen dutifully drops his forehead back to the ground until he is addressed. The king’s next words are less amused as the shift in direction indicates he’s faced Jensen again. “Wonderful, a simpleton. Get up and help me with these ropes, now. In assuming your place you have forgotten your orders.”

Jensen’s body obeys the command on instinct. Jared, his beautiful Jared, has begun to shake in his ropes. Jensen launches over to his side, sliding the last foot on his knees in haste. His nimble fingers make quick work of the major knots and the ropes fall slack. Jensen dares touch the king’s property no longer, and he shifts back a foot despite the crush around his heart telling him to soothe Jared with long strokes and slow kisses. Jared’s hole is used, red and swollen, and leaking the king’s seed. Jensen aches to chase the king’s seed from Jared’s body with his fingers and tongue. He was supposed to have Jared now, after the king was through.  
  
Jared is still shaking and, to Jensen’s horror, the king slaps his ass soundly. “Gods, get up. You’re terrifying this idiot and annoying me.”  
  
Slowly, Jared straightens and turns around, and that’s when Jensen’s world falls apart, to be remade within seconds in an entirely different light. Jared’s shaking isn’t crying. It’s _laughter_.  
  
“What kind of greeting is that, Morgan? Remind me to teach you some manners.” Jared stretches lazily, a smug look on his face.  “Tomorrow.”  
  
Unperturbed by the threat—from his slave!—the man called Morgan leans down to tilt Jared’s chin up. “Good evening, Your Majesty. I hope you enjoyed your day of birth today,” Morgan murmurs, and the kiss that follows is long and slow.  
  
Jensen understands in a deathblow of clarity. He has been cruelly tricked into binding and plundering his own sworn liege. His lovely Jared is no virgin leannán, he is a capricious statesman, toying with Jensen for sport.  Jensen has been allowed to witness the debauchery of his boy-king and his impertinent consort as his last living act.  _Jensen_ is the disposable body tonight.  
  
He is too shocked to even grovel for his forfeit life, he simply sits back on his knees, staring. The worst part is that Jensen can barely bring himself to care about his own neck. Jared will never be his. Jared never existed.  
  
“Oh, shit,” the boy-king exclaims, “Oh, no.” His kilt flutters in the air as he rushes to kneel in front of Jensen, rising up on his knees to his eye-level. “Jensen,” The boy-king snaps in front of his face. “Jensen!” He smacks Jensen lightly. “Morgan, assistance from my currently Least Favorite General would not be amiss.”  
  
“This is not my fault! You didn’t tell me, either.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you—“ General Morgan coughs loudly, “fine, _I_ enjoy it that way. He was supposed to know, though. Lady Danneel agreed to inform him, assured me he would enjoy our charade. Dammit, I knew it felt too good to be play. Jeff, he was...he was amazing.”  
  
“Now I’m _really_ not helping you with him.”  
  
“Jealous asshole. I intend to share, of course. Assuming he wishes us no ill will after this.” The boy-king cups Jensen’s face between his long fingers. His voice is sincere, pleading. “Jensen, please look at me. I am so terribly sorry.”  
  
Jensen finally focuses on the boy—his king. He feels wetness on his own cheeks and realizes they are tears only when the boy starts gently wiping them away. The state name of the king is Rí Ruirech Tristám Padalachlan. If the king has given him his pet name, to be used only among familiars—and truly does not intend to kill him—then perhaps a part of this night has been real.  
  
“Jared?” Jensen hates the hope he hears in his voice.  
  
“Yes,” Jared’s full smile compares favorably to a sunrise. Jared threads a hand through Jensen’s closely cropped hair while the other cages his jaw.  
  
“There you are, there’s my good tutor,” Jared says, his tone full of emotion—relief threaded with something rawer. Something more promising. It should have been absurd, this colt of a man calling him _his good tutor_ and cradling his face like a child. But Jared’s persona had shifted in subtle but unmistakable ways since he was unbound. Jensen can see the mantle of control he wears as easily as the cloak he’d walked in with. There is a king overlaying the man, now.  
  
Jared lets go of Jensen’s face, sitting back on his heels and taking Jensen’s hands in one of his.  
  
“Jensen, we don’t have leannán in this court. In my chambers it is always just General Morgan and me, and sometimes our,” Jared clears his throat, looking briefly abashed, “our special occasion guests.” His eyes meet Jensen’s again, his expression earnest. His free hand emphasizes his speech, waving through the air.  
  
“You weren’t being traded into continued servitude—you were being promoted to ambassador. Lady Danneel brokered your freedom and new title minutes before negotiations ceased. You were to sail here the next day, to be prepped on the journey. You really knew nothing of this?”  
  
Thinking back, Lady Danneel’s farewell missive had been easily thick enough to contain detailed job instructions. Jensen had assumed it was a personal keepsake to remember her by, perhaps an article of clothing or portrait. This is what comes from ascribing sentimentality to his fiery former pupil.  
  
Jensen finally speaks. “So _that’s_ what was in that letter from home, the one I was saving to open.”  
  
Jared laughs as freely as a boy, his dimples matching Jeff’s and unsettling Jensen with a surge of emotion. That one man could turn him inside out so thoroughly in a matter of hours is an alarming prospect. How much of Jared is the pliable boy and how much is the wily king remains shrouded. Likewise, he cannot know whether Morgan will truly deign to share Jared or himself with a foreigner.  
  
Jensen has traded servitude for an uncertain freedom. He is positioned on an unstable chessboard with foreign rules and inscrutable allies. Yet as Jensen basks in the warmth of Jared’s apparent happiness and feels the heat of Jeff’s indulgent but lustful gaze, Jensen is not afraid. He is game to play.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for lackadaisical googling of Gaelic terms and probably too much plot. Also, the ivory tool is inspired/ripped off from a fic I read long ago and have forgotten the author and details of.


End file.
